


Heaven Is in Your Eyes

by Hot_elf



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28401915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hot_elf/pseuds/Hot_elf
Summary: When his old friend Darrian Tabris asks him for help with cheering up his sad new Warden, Zevran doesn't expect he will be of much use. But it turns out he and Bethany Hawke both are in need of comfort and love.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Bethany Hawke
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zute](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zute/gifts).



Sigrun's sharp eyes spot him first, the moment he passes the Keep's new, heavily fortified gate. "Zevran! You're back. How was Antiva?" She bounces toward him, a wide grin on her face.

"Hot and deadly, much as usual." Zevran smiles back. The dwarf is his favourite among the Warden's new companions – much more fun than that dour Howe fellow, and a lot prettier than Oghren. "I fear I am beginning to turn into a Fereldan after all these years. Believe it or not, I missed the rain, while I was away."

"Ah, now you're pulling my leg." Sigrun hefts his heavy pack with ease. "It's good to have you back, though. Life has been boring without you."

They make their way across the yard, which is bustling with farmers and artisans. Through the open door of the smithy, Wade can be seen at the anvil, pounding away at some piece of armour or other with undivided focus, while next door, a peasant woman is singing the praises of her goat's cheese in the unmistakable heavy accent of Lothering. Zevran smiles to himself. _It is good to be back._

"How is Darrian?" He glances up at the Keep's upper windows.

"Mopey." Sigrun makes a face. "He's been missing you, I think. Keeps talking about those rooftop runs you used to go on in Denerim, how much fun you had back then." She snorts. "I told him we could go to Amaranthine together, sneak into some of those boring noblemen's estates and see what we could find there, but he says he can't take the risk nowadays. Warden Commander and all that, you know."

"More's the pity." Zevran allows himself a nostalgic sigh. _Ah, those were the days_. He has rather fond memories of their time in Denerim himself. Darrian knew the city like the back of his hand, and with Zevran at his side, no treasure had been safe from them, no matter how well hidden or how heavily guarded.

It must be hard for his old friend to be locked up like this, with all the responsibilities of an arldom weighing him down. "Think he has time to see me?"

"He'll make time for you." Sigrun takes him to a small room on the Keep's upper floors, where he can leave his luggage, and then straight on to the Commander's quarters, where she proceeds to bang on the door without any attempt at subtlety. "Darrian! Look who's here to see you." She storms in, not bothering to wait for an answer, dragging Zevran with her.

"Damn it, Sigrun I told you not to- Zevran!" Darrian's pale face lights up in a rare, genuine smile. "I hadn't expected you so early."

"Me neither." Grasping his friend's hand in both of his, Zevran shakes it warmly. "But the winds were in our favour and the passage was quick. Seems the Creators want me back at your side."

"And I'm glad they do. I really am." Darrian waits for a heartbeat, until the door has fallen shut behind Sigrun. "Did you achieve what you set out to do, then?"

"That, and more. Everything has been taken care of, and our enemies will no longer bother us." Zevran doesn't elaborate, and Darrian knows better than to ask questions he doesn't need to know the answer to. It's one of the things Zevran likes best about him. "But what about you, _amico_? How have you been?"

Darrian rubs his eyes with a weary sigh. He looks tired and worn out, with deep shadows under his eyes, and he's badly in need of a haircut. His bright red hair looks shaggy and unkempt, and he appears to be even more skinny than usual. "It's been a tough year."

"So I have heard." Zevran raises an eyebrow. "Talking darkspawn? Really? As if the ordinary kind wasn't bad enough."

"That's the least of it." Darrian shakes his head wearily. "There's also bandits, dragons, angry Dalish elves, ransomed nobleman's daughters… It never ends. And they expect me to handle it all, without fail."

"You know you have my blade." Zevran has never regretted pledging himself to Darrian on that fateful day on the road to Redcliffe. "I am yours, whenever you need me."

"That's comforting to know." And there it is again, that quick smile. It lights up his odd, angular face and _almost_ succeeds in making him look attractive – not that Darrian would care about that. Right from the start, he has rebuffed Zevran's advances, and in all the time they've known each other, he has never shown an interest in anyone, male or female. "As a matter of fact, there is something I believe you could help me with, but it doesn't involve fighting."

"Oh?" Zevran leans in a little closer. Sometimes it surprises him how much he enjoys helping his Warden. He has always thought of himself as selfish to the point of ruthlessness, but with Darrian, altruism is kind of its own reward. "What can I do for you, my friend?"

"We have a number of new Wardens, as you may have noticed." Darrian reaches for a ledger on his massive desk. "Alistair keeps sending recruits our way and I appreciate it, I really do."

"Ah, our dear Alistair. Always so helpful. How is his Royal Majesty? And the Queen?" Zevran wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Any happy news regarding an heir to the kingdom?"

"Hardly." Darrian snorts. "And I'd be surprised to hear it, quite frankly. But Alistair is doing well, I believe. The nobles may look to Anora for guidance, but the common folk adore him. Anyway, as I said, we have plenty of new recruits, and most of them have settled in quite nicely. There is, however, one I am worried about." He points to a name on the list.

"Bethany Hawke, mage." Zevran frowns. "The name sounds familiar, somehow. Is she from the Circle at Kinloch, maybe?"

"No." Darrian shakes his head. "She's an apostate. Grew up near Lothering, never joined a Circle. You may have heard of her sister, Marian, who has made quite the name for herself over in Kirkwall."

"Ah. _That_ Hawke." News of Marian Hawke's exploits have travelled even all the way to Antiva, via the Crows' excellent spy network, and Zevran has followed her rise with interest. "And why would her sister decide to join the Wardens?"

"She didn't so much decide." With a sigh, Darrian allows the ledger to fall shut. "Stroud came upon them in the Deep Roads, a few months ago. The girl had been hit by a genlock arrow and was slowly dying from the Taint. Somehow, they persuaded him to let her undergo the Joining, as a last resort to save her."

"They persuaded _Stroud_? I am impressed." Zevran shudders. He can't stand the man. The unfortunate moustache is the least of his problems, as far as Zevran is concerned. "And she survived the Joining? Good for her. Being a Warden may not exactly be a picnic, but it beats being dead, am I right?"

"Yes." Darrian sighs again. "Unfortunately, that's not how she sees it. She's been keeping to herself all winter, pining away in her room. She seems so hopeless and sad, and… I don't know how to get through to her, Zevran. Do you think you could-"

"Do what? Talk to her? Sure, if you think it would help." He shrugs. "Though why she should listen to me…"

"You have a way with women. They like you." Darrian sounds embarrassed, and his ears are tinged a faint pink. It's quite endearing, really.

"They most certainly do." Zevran grins at him, thoroughly enjoying his discomfort. "Still, I don't think seducing her will help. Do you?"

"I don't want you to _seduce_ her. She's far too vulnerable for that." Impatiently, Darrian shakes his head. "Just… be kind to her. Make her feel at home. Can you do that for me?"

"I can try." With an exaggerated yawn, Zevran straightens his back. "As soon as I have had a bit of rest. Maybe Sigrun can introduce me to her tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Darrian confirms. "Thank you, Zev. I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it." Zevran doesn't bother to hide his satisfied smile as he heads for the door. It feels good to be among friends once more, to be needed and valued.

It feels good to be home.

* * *

Another grey and rainy morning dawns over the Keep, and Bethany struggles to get out of bed in time for breakfast. She doesn't actually mind the weather much – growing up in Lothering, it was much the same, after all. But there seems little to look forward to during the day ahead, just another repeat of her duties as a Grey Warden. Weapons practice, spellwork, lunch, an hour or two in the library familiarizing herself with the evils of darkspawn, then dinner, more reading… it's an endless list of chores to tick off before she heads off to bed again.

She's not due for patrol for another week, but even then, it probably won't be much of a diversion. Trudging through underground tunnels, slaying monsters, or maybe the occasional bandit or smuggler – sure, it's a worthy cause, no doubt about it. But her heart isn't in it.

It would be different if she had actually chosen this life, she muses, while she pulls the heavy woollen robes over her head and quickly braids her hair. Or if there was someone, anyone here who cared about her as a person, not just a fellow Warden. She misses Marian more than she can say, she misses her mother, and by the Maker, she still misses Carver, will miss him forever. That ogre took more from her than just a brother. He was her twin, her other half, her partner in crime for all of her life, and losing him will forever feel like having lost a limb.

"Bethany?" Sigrun's voice, accompanied by a sharp knock on her door. "You coming down for breakfast? There's someone I want you to meet."

With a sigh, she heads down the stairs, wondering idly who that _someone_ could be, and why Sigrun is suddenly showing an interest in her social life. So far, she has managed to keep most of her fellow Wardens at a distance, with perfunctory smiles and empty chatter. Trusting strangers doesn't come easily to her, even if she does feel lonely at times.

She is touch-starved, most of all, hungry for hugs and cuddles. If she just wanted sex, it would be easy enough. There's any number of men and women here who would be more than willing to take her to bed. But she's not interested in a quick fling with no feelings attached, and she never has been. What she wants is love, affection, tenderness – and if there's passion, too, the heat of desire, the ecstasy of lust, that's really just the cherry on top. _And you'll never get any of that if you don't let anyone get close to you_ , a small voice whispers in her head. It's Marian's voice, she recognizes it only too well. But her sister isn't here to badger her, and incorporeal voices are easy to ignore.

"Ah, there you are." Sigrun is already seated at one of the long trestle tables, and there's a stranger sitting next to her. "Meet Zevran. A genuine hero of the Blight."

The man immediately jumps to his feet, executing a small bow in her direction. No, not a man – an elf, and a beautiful one at that, she notices distantly, with a slim, but well-muscled body, smooth flawless golden-brown skin, eyes like amber and a number of exotic tattoos. He moves with a fluid grace that makes them all look clumsy in comparison.

"Zevran Arainai, formerly of the Antivan Crows," he introduces himself. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," she replies mechanically. "I'm Bethany Hawke. You were one of Darrian's companions during the Blight Year, weren't you?" Sitting down, she reaches for a platter on the other side of the table, and he's quick to hand it to her with a graceful flourish. _Very attentive_. Or maybe observant would be a better word, in his case.

Zevran nods. "That is correct. I am not really much of a hero, though, I fear. I was just tagging along, most of the time. But it has been an honour to fight at the Warden's side, and Darrian will always remain a good friend."

Bethany is relieved to find that Zevran doesn't expect much in the way of conversation from her. He easily keeps the table entertained with anecdotes from his time as an assassin, all of them funny, some of them savagely so. Once or twice, she notices his gaze resting on her, but she's unable to read his expression. Curiosity? Concern, maybe? She has no way of telling, but then again, it figures that a professional killer would be hard to read. It's probably all part of his training.

Zevran's Antivan accent is rich and sensual, and his voice is a deep, soft purr, warm and full of sunlight, like the homeland he describes so eloquently. Bethany ends up listening more to the sound of it than to the words he's actually saying, so when he addresses himself to her, she doesn't catch his meaning at first.

"I'm sorry, what were you saying?" She flashes an apologetic smile at him, surprised to hear his breath hitch before he replies.

"I hear you met my good friend Isabela while you were living in Kirkwall? The pirate?" There's a twinkle in his eye as he mentions Isabela, and Bethany catches herself wondering what exactly he means by _good friend_.

"You know Isabela?" The mere mention of the name brings back such a rush of feelings and memories that she has to close her eyes for a moment, trying to regain her composure. _Isabela. Nights at the Hanged Man, playing Wicked Grace, the pirate hanging over Marian's shoulder, allowing them all a generous glimpse into her impressive cleavage. Varric's dry voice, reminding her not to cheat. "Come on, Rivaini, we all know you have an ace hidden somewhere in those boots of yours." Aveline's disapproving look, Fenris' low chuckle. Warmth and laughter and companionship…_

Opening her eyes, she finds Zevran watching her patiently, his expression as unreadable as before. "Indeed I do. Isabela and I go way back, well before her swashbuckling days." He smiles fondly. "She's doing well, I trust?"

"She was, the last time I saw her." There's a bitter taste in Bethany's mouth at the thought of how long that has been. Five months? Six? "My sister and her… They are close."

"Ah." Zevran's smile becomes a tad wider and he licks his full lips in a blatant display of sensuality. "Yes, Isabela has always been quite open-minded. Wonderfully so, in fact." His voice is brimming with innuendo, but strangely enough, it doesn't sound creepy or off-putting. Bethany has never met anyone who exudes sex the way Zevran does, and yet, there's nothing sleazy or provocative about his manner – it's simply part of who he is, like his smile or the tone of his skin. Something to embrace, nothing dirty or shameful.

"Yes, well." She clears her throat. "I can send her your regards the next time I write to my sister. If you'd like me to."

"That would be much appreciated, yes." Zevran thanks her with a brief nod, then rises gracefully. "I hope we have a chance to converse again soon, Bethany Hawke."

"So do I." She surprises herself by the honesty in her tone. She really does. Talking to him, even for these brief moments, has made her feel alive more than she has in months.


	2. Chapter 2

"You didn't tell me that she's beautiful." Zevran tosses back his hood to glare at Darrian.

"Who, Bethany? No, I didn't." Darrian glances up from the mountain of paperwork on his desk to roll his expressive green eyes at him. "I guess I figured you'd see for yourself. Is that a problem?"

"Not a problem, no." Zevran sighs. "But she is lovely, especially when she smiles." It's a _devastating_ smile, like a concentrated ray of sunshine, and it touches him more than he likes to admit, even to himself. The fact that she is exactly his type doesn't hurt either. Dark hair and eyes, soft curves, smooth golden-brown skin - yes, Bethany Hawke is everything he adores in a woman, and in the normal course of events he'd do everything in his power to make her fall for him.

"Well, if you have made her smile, you've already achieved far more than we've managed in several months." Darrian leans back in his chair, stretching and wincing when his spine makes an ugly cracking noise. "So, do you have any idea what to do next? About Bethany, I mean?"

"I have a plan." Zevran nods. "And it involves this." From behind his back, he produces a large wicker basket, dropping it in Darrian's lap.

"What-" Flipping open the lip, Darrian recoils in surprise, but then he smiles. "Creators! You've found Pounce." With a practised grip, he fishes the large red tabby out of the basket and breathes a kiss on his nose. "How are you doing, old friend?"

"You know that cat?" Zevran feels his jaw drop and immediately closes his mouth. He knows it's not a good look on him. "I found him in the Keep's gardens. He looks like a… what do you call it? A stray." And that's putting it mildly. The cat looks neglected and half-starved, his coat patchy in places, with one ear half torn off.

"That, my dear Zevran, is Ser Pounce-a-lot." Darrian's smile is pure affection as he gently rubs the creature's remaining ear between his fingers. "He is… or rather he was Anders' cat, and I believe I made him an honorary Warden at some point."

"And who is Anders?" Zevran shakes his head. "Really, I have been gone for too long. I have completely lost track of the people you surround yourself with." And that is not a good thing. How is he supposed to make sure Darrian is safe if he lacks that kind of vital information?

"One of my Wardens. An incredibly talented mage, and a good friend." A shadow crosses Darrian's face. "We lost him almost a year ago, but I still miss him. What are you going to do with Pounce?"

Zevran smiles slowly. "Well, I figured I would introduce him to Bethany. Maybe they can comfort each other."

"Why not?" Darrian shrugs. "It's certainly worth a try."

Bethany is delighted. Within moments after Zevran presents her with the cat, Pounce is happily curled up on her lap, purring away, while healing magic pours from her soft hands. There's nothing she can do about the missing ear, but all the little cuts and bruises disappear under her touch, and the cat looks so much happier already that Zevran almost envies him.

"He's gorgeous." And yes, there's that smile again, and Zevran's heartbeat speeds up. "Where did you find him?"

"Oh, somewhere out there." He makes a vague gesture with his hand. "His name is Ser Pounce-a-lot, according to Darrian, and he used to belong to a mage called-"

"Anders!" Bethany exclaims. "By the Maker! You've brought me Anders' cat?"

It is his turn to be surprised. "How would you know about the mage? From what Darrian told me, I assumed he was dead."

She shakes her head. "Not dead, no. I met him in Kirkwall. He runs an underground clinic there, for Fereldan refugees. He is a very kind man."

 _And also a Warden on the run from his fate, apparently. Interesting._ Zevran files the information away for later, to discuss it with Darrian when they have a moment. "Well, Ser Pounce needs a new home," he says aloud. "Will you look after him?"

"Of course I will. You're going to need food first, right, my darling?" The cat responds with an enthusiastic meow, and Bethany sighs happily. "Maker bless me, but he's a sweetheart. Thank you so much, Zevran."

"My pleasure," he replies absent-mindedly. "Are you a devout Andrastean, then?" He doesn't even know why the thought bothers him. Darrian has helped him reconnect with the Gods of his people, the elven Creators, but he has spent all his life among the faithful of the Maker and it has never mattered much.

"Not really, no. That was just a figure of speech I picked up from my mother." If Bethany is surprised by the sudden change of topic, she doesn't let it show. "I personally have a hard time believing in a Maker who wants the best and brightest of his children locked up in towers."

"I can't fault you for that." Zevran rather agrees with the sentiment himself, to be honest. "But you were spared that fate, weren't you?"

"Yes." She runs her hand along Pounce's back, checking for further injuries. "Thanks to my father, Malcolm Hawke. He didn't believe in Circles anymore after he ran away from one himself, so he made sure I wouldn't end up in one. When he realized I was a mage, he trained me himself. He taught me all I know."

"He sounds like an exceedingly interesting man. And a very good father." Not that he knows much about fatherhood in practice, but Zevran can appreciate the concept in theory.

"He was." Bethany's smile is wistful now, but it's still a smile, and he decides to count it as a win. "Thanks for reminding me of him."

"As I said, it's been my pleasure." And that's nothing but the truth. He has known Bethany Hawke for only a few short days, but already, there is nothing that gives him more joy than making her smile.

* * *

"Bethany? Do you have a minute to spare?" It's Zevran, of course – the only one who ever comes to her room unannounced.

He has shown up almost every evening for the past few weeks, checking in on her unobtrusively, without asking much of her in return. She has begun to look forward to his visits, even though she can't fathom his motives in befriending her.

It is not sexual interest, that much is clear – if it's a quick tumble he's after, that's easy to come by in a house full of horny Wardens. And from what she has observed, he isn't shy about availing himself of the opportunity whenever the mood strikes him.

So, no, that isn't why he comes to see her. Whatever his reasons, he is unfailingly courteous, never fails to bring a treat for Pounce and always makes sure not to overstay his welcome.

"Zevran! Of course I have time." She flashes a quick smile at him. "What is it?"

Slowly, he advances toward her. "You see, I was wondering… Are you interested in poetry at all? Antivan poetry specifically?"

"Poetry!" Her curiosity is immediately piqued. "Why do you ask?"

"No particular reason." He is carrying a book, she realizes, and now he hands it to her. "I found this _Anthology of Antivan Verse_ in the library, and I thought you might enjoy it. It is a translation, of course, but I think I recognize some of the poems. They are beautiful."

For a moment, she doesn't know what to say. It has been so long since anyone has taken the trouble to find a gift for her, and she can tell that this one is meaningful for him somehow.

"I love poetry." Taking the book from his hands, she runs her fingers across the soft cover. It's a small book, but well made, bound in fine leather, with the title embossed on the cover in tiny golden letters. "But you have to stay and read them with me. Maybe you can quote some of the Antivan originals to me? You seem to have a pretty good memory."

He hesitates for a moment, as if unsure of whether to take on that kind of commitment, but then he nods. "I would love that. But not right now, I am afraid. Darrian, Nate, and Sigrun have asked me to play a hand of Wicked Grace with them, down in the Great Hall. Why don't you join us?"

She makes a face. "I don't think-"

"It is nice down there. Much warmer than up here, too." He sounds almost pleading. "The wine is decent, and I can assure you that the company is excellent."

"I don't know." Thoughtfully, she chews on her lower lip, only to find him staring at her when she looks up. "You won't need me for the game, if there's already four of you."

He shrugs. "We can always take turns. But if you would rather not play, that is fine, too. You can bring a book if you want to."

"All right." His eagerness is rather touching, so she decides to give it a try.

Down in the Great Hall, it is much nicer than she'd expected. Most of the room is dark, making it seem much less cavernous than by daylight. A fire is burning merrily in the hearth, and little bands of Wardens are gathered together all across the room, four or five at a time, each group at the centre of its own little island of light.

Darrian and the others greet her with quick nods, and no one bothers her when she settles into a chair next to them with her book. The game starts, and soon they are far too involved to notice her much anyway. She starts reading, occasionally looking up to catch a glance at them. Her fellow Wardens are much less intimidating like this, with all their usual barriers let down, and she wonders whether she has misjudged them. This isn't really so different from hanging around with the gang in Kirkwall.

The real treat, however, is watching Zevran and Darrian interact. They appear close like brothers, each mirroring the other's gestures, sometimes even finishing the other's sentences. And Darrian, strict, sober Darrian, is a different person with Zevran around, laughing and joking and looking happy and relaxed. They seem to connect somehow, as if they understand each other on some deep level she can't hope to fathom. Then again, Zevran has a similar effect on the others. Sigrun is positively bouncy, and even Nathaniel smiles once or twice. For the first time since coming to the Keep, Bethany feels the urge to learn more about the others, to get to know them better.

When she finally makes her way up the stairs, it is way past her usual bedtime, and she is exhausted and slightly dazed from all the noise and laughter. But at the same time, there's a warmth in her chest she hasn't felt in months.

_Maybe I ought to do this more often._

* * *

Bethany insists that they read the poems together, and soon Zevran starts to wonder what exactly he has gotten himself into.

They sit side by side on the wide windowsill in her room, with its stunning view of the Coastlands. First, she reads the translation to him, and then he recites the original from memory. It is surprisingly easy to recall the lines, and he truly enjoys the familiar feel of his tongue wrapping itself around the syllables in his native tongue, so rich and beautiful.

" _Stay! Rest beside me. Do not go. I will watch you. I will protect you."_ Bethany's voice is sweet and musical, and the translation actually isn't half bad. "Now you."

"Give me a moment… Ah, yes. _Rimani! Riposati accanto a me. Non te ne andare._ " He loses himself in the beauty of the words, closing his eyes as he tries to get every word right. " _Io ti veglierò. Io ti proteggerò._ "

"Oh, this is lovely." Bethany's eyes shine with delight. " _I love you. I do not have any thought that is not yours; I have no desire in the blood that is not for you._ "

Zevran has to take a deep breath before replying, because he knows this poem by heart, has known it for ages, and every word of it is etched deep into his brain. Besides, it is far too close to his true feelings to be taken lightly. " _Ti amo. Non ho nessun pensiero che non sia tuo; non ho nel sangue nessun desiderio che non sia per te._ " He should stop here, but he can't make himself. The words tumble from his lips like rose petals, soft and fragrant. " _Lo sai. Non vedo nella mia vita altro compagno, non vedo altra gioia. Rimani. Riposati. Non temere di nulla. Dormi stanotte sul mio cuore._ "

" _Sleep tonight on my heart."_ Bethany swallows. "Oh, Zev. This is so beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with me."

"Nothing could give me greater pleasure." His heart is beating so wildly that he worries she is going to notice. "And it is I who must thank you."

"Why?" She laughs a little. "Why in the Maker's name should you?"

"Because you, Bethany Hawke, are like a ray of sunshine that warms my frozen heart." And now she has brought out the poet in him, it seems. Zevran flinches, casting about for something to say, to make her forget this embarrassing declaration of his.

But Bethany doesn't seem to mind. She just looks at him thoughtfully, as if trying to pierce his outer layers with her searching stare. "You know, I don't think your heart is as cold as you like to pretend."

"Maybe." He clears his throat, struggling to regain his composure. "In any case, I ought to leave. It is getting late."

"But you can't leave yet!" Bethany jumps to her feet and crosses the room in a flash. "I've got something for you. A present." She digs around for a moment in her bedside cabinet and then returns with a slim bottle and two glasses. "From the Keep's cellars. Nate helped me find it."

"You don't have to… Brasca!" Whatever he's expected, this is not it. "Antivan brandy? In a Fereldan wine cellar? Wonders never cease." Taking the bottle from her hands, he studies the label, barely resisting the urge to whistle between his teeth. "And a very fine brandy, too. Thank you very much."

"Darrian mentioned that you enjoy a glass now and then." Bethany is blushing a little, and she looks adorable. "Is it really that good?"

"It most certainly is." Quickly, he pours two glasses. "Let me show you."

Bethany takes a tiny, careful sip from hers. "Maker! That is strong stuff!"

The way her nose crinkles is so adorable that Zevran feels his breath catch in his throat. He downs his own glass in a single hasty gulp in an effort to hide it, but he immediately regrets it. This brandy deserves far better. It tastes wonderful, mellow and rich, and it brings back memories of Antiva, of warm summer nights, of people sitting outside in tiny street cafés, of laughter and passion and heated discussions.

"It is strong, yes." Carefully, he refills his glass, determined to take his time enjoying the second one. "But once you get used to it, you will discover all kinds of subtle flavours. Oak and vanilla and…" He takes another sip. "A tiny bit of dark chocolate, no?"

Bethany takes another, bigger mouthful. "Chocolate? Really? I can get behind the vanilla, I believe, but-"

"Chocolate," he insists. "Just a hint of it, right at the end. Try again."

Bethany does, and this time she agrees that there might be the _tiniest_ trace of a chocolate flavour, but now her glass is empty, so he refills it, and his own, too, for good measure. He can take it, he's had much worse than this, but by the time she finishes her second glass, Bethany's cheeks are flushed, and her eyes have taken on an adventurous gleam.

"Zev? Can I ask you something? Something personal?" She doesn't _sound_ drunk, but still, there's a new quality to her voice, something deep and sultry he hasn't heard before.

 _Something personal_? Now she's made him curious. "Whatever you wish."

"Why do you always keep your distance with me?" She sounds genuinely put out by it, and he rushes to reassure her.

"What do you mean, keep my distance? We spend time together, no? We talk, and we read poetry, and we…" He's lost for words, because surely, she must have noticed how much he has opened up to her in the last few weeks.

"That's not what I mean!" Now her tone is positively cranky. "You're nice and polite, and all that, but you never touch me. Not like the others." Her lower lip quivers. Maybe she is a teensy bit drunk after all. "Don't you think I'm pretty?"

And now the quiver turns into a full-blown pout, and it's all he can do not to grab her and kiss those full, luscious lips.

"No, I do not think you are pretty." It's an effort to keep his voice steady, what with the alcohol and the intoxicating effect of her presence. "I think you are stunningly beautiful, inside and out. You are one of the loveliest women I have ever met, and I wish-"

"Stop wishing. Just kiss me." Suddenly she's in his arms, all warm and soft and curvy, smiling at him as if he's the centre of her world, and it would take a far better man than him to resist her.

He tries to keep the kiss chaste at first, but it's impossible, because she smells and feels far too good and he has wanted this for far too long. He has done his best to distract himself with others, mindful of Darrian's admonitions, but this is too much. Pulling her close, he parts her lips with his tongue and kisses her deeply, kisses her like he has done in his dreams.

And she kisses him back, just as eagerly, and she makes the most delectable little noise, when he gently cups her breast with one hand, brushing his thumb across the tight hard bud of her nipple. Her scent is all around him, fragrant and heady, driving him crazy, and he moans, chasing her tongue with his, drinking in every one of her sighs. Kissing Bethany is all he thought it would be and more – sweet and spicy and intoxicating, far more than any brandy in the world.

When he finally lets go of her lips, they are bruised from his kisses, full and red, and she is panting a little. "Zev! That was…" She breaks off, and now she is blushing a little, and it makes her look even more delectable.

"Yes." All his usual eloquence has left him, and it's all he can do not to drag her over to the bed immediately to make love to her. "Bethany… _amore mio_ , I…" Another deep breath, and he has recovered sufficiently to form a complete sentence again. "I really think I should leave now."

He pulls back with an effort. Letting go of her is torture, but it is the right thing to do. She is not like the others, not a quick diversion, and besides, she has had far too much brandy, and-

"Will you be back tomorrow, then?" The smile she gives him is so full of promise that it makes his heart nearly explode with warmth. _My sunshine_.

"Tomorrow, and every other day, for as long as you will have me." Taking her hand, he breathes a passionate kiss on it. "I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the poetry goes to the great Gabriele d'Annunzio.


	3. Chapter 3

Bethany wakes up with a smile.

It's a glorious day outside, brisk and clear, with a bright blue sky above, but that's not the reason for her good mood. No, she muses, as she gets dressed and brushes her hair, leaving it unbraided for the first time in months – her happiness is entirely due to one person. _Zevran_. The mere thought of him is enough to put an extra bounce into her step, and the memory of that kiss makes her tingle all over.

On impulse, she sets out to find him. He's not at breakfast, nor in the library nor at the shooting range. She finally spots him out in the courtyard, in the quad set aside for sparring matches. He's dressed in his leather armour, a viciously sharp dagger in each hand, and he's busy decimating the younger Warden recruits who are only too eager to throw themselves at him.

As she watches him take them down with methodical efficiency, one by one, in quick succession, Sigrun joins her, a knowing smile on her lips. "Come to enjoy the view?"

Bethany decides to ignore the innuendo. "I just wanted to get some fresh air. Is he always that merciless?" She gestures at Zevran who has just dispatched yet another young hopeful, without even breaking a sweat. He flashes a quick, perfunctory smile at Bethany, but he is already reaching for his daggers again, falling into a graceful fighting stance.

Sigrun frowns a little. "Not usually, no. He seems to be in a bit of a mood." Glancing up at Bethany, she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Maybe he needs to work off some tension."

Bethany feels her cheeks heat up, but as she opens her mouth to reply, she is interrupted by Darrian's voice, loud and clear, carrying all across the courtyard with ease.

"Zevran! Stop tormenting my poor Wardens. Why don't you pick on someone your own size for a change?" He's sporting leathers, too, and there's a wide grin on his face, as he reaches for his own daggers. "That is, if you dare face me, you sorry excuse for an assassin."

An excited murmur rises all around the quad, and Sigrun elbows Bethany in the ribs, her grin mirroring Darrian's. "The boss himself? Sparring with Zevran? That should be a sight to see!" She raises her voice. "Recruits! Over here, everyone, and you might actually learn a thing or two."

Bethany watches in utter fascination as the two opponents begin circling each other, daggers at the ready. They are pretty evenly matched in height, and Darrian exudes a wiry strength that seems like more than a match for Zevran's lithe grace. And they have clearly done this before, more than once – there's an instinctive rhythm to their movements, as they execute a complicated dance of moves and countermoves that is beautiful to see.

Zevran is the first to attack, though Bethany completely fails to see any sign of it before he is almost on top of Darrian. He moves with inhuman speed and grace, his daggers whirling too fast for the eye to see. And yet, Darrian easily parries the attack, laughing it off with a contemptuous snarl.

They are both enjoying themselves immensely, Bethany realizes, at least as much as when they were bantering at the card table. Zevran's eyes gleam with delight, and he looks wholly alive, all grace and power and strength. The muscles in his arms and legs are dancing under his smooth brown skin, and his hair, tied back loosely with a length of string, shimmers in the sunlight like pure spun gold. He looks like a god, a hero of legends, and Bethany sighs dreamily.

Her reaction draws an amused chuckle from Sigrun. "Yup. Definitely enjoying the view, aren't you?"

She is spared an answer by Darrian's sudden counterattack. Once again, the daggers become a mere blur, as the two of them trade blows too fast for anyone to follow. There's a murmur of appreciation from the assembled Wardens as Zevran rolls to the side, out of Darrian's reach, getting back on his feet only a heartbeat later.

A quick feint, another attack, another graceful evasive manoeuvre – Bethany does her best to follow, but it is impossible to keep up. They are just too fast, too deadly, and for the first time she has a hint of how they managed all those feats she has only heard of in tales of the Blight Year: defeating dragons and archdemons; besting the Champion of Orzammar; vanquishing broodmothers and outwitting powerful witches. Darrian doesn't usually join their patrols anymore, so it's easy to see him only as the dignified Arl of Amaranthine, the distinguished Commander of the Grey, sorting out petty squabbles from behind his desk. This Darrian here is a completely different person, a force of nature, a whirlwind of energy. He looks so much more in his element, so much more alive that Bethany wonders how he bears the daily drudgery.

Neither of the two shows any sign of getting tired, but right as Darrian attacks again, a bird swoops in from above, headed straight for Zevran's face. He cries out, diving out of the way, but the moment of surprise has cost him valuable time, and his parry comes a heartbeat too late. Darrian's dagger connects with his upper arm, right below the leather pauldron, drawing blood.

Darrian's cry echoes his own, and he immediately lowers his weapons. "Zev! Are you all right?"

"I am fine." Zevran shrugs the injury off, barely glancing at it. "It is just a scratch. Go on."

But Darrian shakes his head, suddenly serious again. "No. This has gone too far." Ignoring Zevran's protests, he heads for the fence, sheathing his weapons. "Thank you for the match, old friend. I should get back to work."

Bethany is at Zevran's side the moment he leaves the ring. "Let me take a look at that."

"As I said, it is just a scratch." He rolls his expressive eyes at her, but when she reaches for his arm, he doesn't object.

The wound isn't deep, she finds much to her relief, but the cut runs right across one of Zevran's tattoos, a thin line of red breaking the swirling, exotic pattern in two. Bethany is struck by an irrational surge of resentment toward that cut – nothing should be allowed to mar the perfection of his golden skin. Quickly, she places her hand on top of it, muttering a quick healing spell.

Zevran shivers slightly, eyes half closed. "You really don't have to waste your magic on this."

"But I do." She avoids his gaze, focussing on the wound that is already beginning to close. "Even small scratches can get infected, if you're not careful."

He doesn't object further, but when she finally looks up to face him, a small smile is playing around his lips. "Thank you, _cuore mio_." He keeps his voice low, so the others won't hear the endearment, but his tone carries enough heat to make her blush again. "I am feeling much better already."

Her hand is still on his arm, and without thinking, she reaches deeper with her power, loosening the muscles in his arms and shoulders, still tense from the fight, adding a hint of rejuvenation magic for good measure. Zevran leans into her touch, almost purring, and she forgets herself, diving deeper and deeper, vaguely noticing the echoes of pain etched into the lines of his tattoos, deeper still, until she recoils with a gasp. Deep down there, at the core of his being, is a hurt so profound and so heart-breaking that it resonates through her whole body. "What- Oh Maker, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"No, you shouldn't. There was no need for that." Zevran is no longer relaxed, no longer happy, and his lips are set in a tight, forbidding line as he takes her hand and removes it from his arm.

Bethany could slap herself. He doesn't need to tell her that she's gone too far. She has invaded his privacy, torn down his carefully built protections without awaiting his permission, and she had no right to do that. "I am sorry." She glances at him, hoping against hope to see some small sign that she hasn't lost his trust.

But when he smiles at her, it's his usual, glib smile, and his eyes are cool and distant. "It is all good. Thank you for the healing, Bethany." And without another word, he's gone.

* * *

That evening, in the Great Hall, Zevran seeks out the company of the new recruits, who are assembled around a large table in a corner of the room. Their rowdiness suits him tonight – it is easy to hide his feelings among them, as immature and self-centered as they are. There is no way he could fool Darrian, not with his soul in turmoil like it hasn't been for years, but those young fools don't even notice his distress.

"Master Arainai! Your skill with the daggers is beyond compare! And your speed, your agility…" Mathieu, a lanky young bard who has escaped the intrigues of the Orlesian court only to find himself conscripted, is looking up to Zevran with an awe he wishes he could dispel. If the boy knew the price Zevran has paid for his skills, he wouldn't be so eager to emulate him. But Mathieu is a romantic and unwilling to let reality intrude on his heroic fantasies. "Tell us, Master Arainai! How many foes have you defeated? How many have you slain?"

Zevran flinches, but somehow, he manages to keep his voice even. "I do not keep a tally. Too many. Let us leave it at that." _Far too many._ How can he tell this child about the nightmares that sometimes haunt him, about the memories of pretty ladies begging for their lives, of princes writhing on the floor in agony, of the stink of blood and guts and vomit on the battlefield? Mathieu is a Warden now. He will learn, soon enough, and then he will wish he hadn't.

"But how can you say that?" The boy is young enough to be quite tone-deaf. "You're a hero of the Blight! None of us can ever hope to aspire to such fame and glory."

"Enough of that hero business. We can have a rematch tomorrow, and I can show you some tricks, if you want." Brushing him aside, Zevran looks around for another drink, only to find a pretty young girl dropping into his lap, offering him her goblet to share.

"I would be up for a rematch any time you want, Zevran." She flutters her eyelids at him in an obvious invitation. Rayna, that's her name, he recalls, and she is quite talented with a rapier.

Actually, she reminds him of Rinna a bit, and not just because of the name. The same sassiness, the same careless disregard for her own life, the same optimism. _And look what that got Rinna in the end. Nothing but a cut throat and a pauper's grave._

The girl is still looking at him, waiting for his answer, arching her back a little to show off her pretty little breasts. It would be a tempting proposition under any other circumstance – Rayna is sweet and hot and beautiful, and her offer comes without any strings attached. Just some fun between the sheets, no risk of emotional attachment. It's the way he has played it for most of his life, and hasn't it served him well?

But he can't do it, not tonight. "Some other time, maybe." Gently, he pushes her off his lap. "Find someone else to have fun with."

She pouts, but she doesn't insist, and a while later, Zevran sees her disappear into the dark with a young mage from Rivain. _Good for her_.

He really should do the same. Sex is the best distraction he knows, the easiest way to silence the voices in is head, those voices that seem particularly insistent today. Ever since Bethany- But it's no use thinking about it, about her, about what could have been. A man like him, with so much blood on his hands, so much suffering in his past – he doesn't deserve her, and he never will.

With a sigh, he gets up and heads for the stairs. Best to keep to his quarters for a while. No doubt he will get over this maudlin mood soon enough.

* * *

When three days and nights have passed without a word from Zevran, Bethany decides to take matters into her own hands. She misses him, she dreams of him almost every night, and she is not ready to give up on this, whatever it is or may become. Yet she doesn't dare face him directly, not yet. She needs advice, and there is really only one person qualified to give it.

"Bethany." Darrian greets her with a tired smile. He has only just seen off a delegation of merchants from Amaranthine, fat burghers with equally fat purses grumbling about the expense of keeping up the city's defenses. After meeting them on the stairs, Bethany sincerely pities her commander for having to put up with them. "What can I do for you?"

"I need your help. If you have time to spare, that is." Tentatively, she smiles back. "It's about Zevran."

"Ah." Darrian doesn't seem surprised. "Come in. Take a seat. Seems like a topic worth making time for."

"I am sorry to bother you with this." Bethany takes a deep breath. "But I'm afraid I've done something terribly stupid." Quickly, she recounts the events at the sparring ring. Darrian listens without interrupting her, his face unreadable. "I know I was out of line," she closes. "And now I've lost him."

Darrian tilts his head to the side. "So you think you had him before?"

She blushes. "I… I think I did, yes. He kissed me. He called me _cuore mio."_

"Did he take you to bed?" From anyone else, the question would have been an impertinence, but Darrian's tone is neutral, almost clinical. He is really just trying to sort out the problem, weighing all the facts.

"No." Bethany swallows. "No, he didn't." And that really says it all, doesn't it? She has been fooling herself, thinking he cared about her when he-

But Darrian's reaction is unexpected. "He didn't? Really? Huh." Slowly, he sits down on the edge of his desk, rubbing his chin. "Then I guess it must have been serious."

"It… _what_?" Bethany stares blankly at him, unable to follow his line of thinking. "Well, either way, I've lost him. What I did… it was unforgivable."

Darrian shrugs. "Maybe. I think you're underestimating Zevran and his capacity for forgiveness. Go talk to him. Explain. He is not an unreasonable man, despite all appearances to the contrary."

"I will." With a sigh, she gets up. "Darrian? The pain I felt… What happened to him? What in the Maker's name did the Crows do to him to hurt him so?"

"That's not for me to tell, if he hasn't done so. He may feel comfortable sharing it with you himself, in time. But in general terms…" Darrian sighs. "It's how the Crows operate, you see? They buy their recruits young, preferably orphaned, and they do everything in their power to break them. Only a few of them even survive the training, I believe." Sadly, he shakes his head. "We are all hurting, Bethany, one way or another. Every person I have encountered since becoming a Warden has their own sad tale, myself included. But I have never given up, and neither has Zevran."

"And neither will I." Bethany raises her chin, meeting his gaze. "Thank you, Darrian." He is right. This is worth fighting for. Now all she needs is a plan.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes Bethany a while to find what she's looking for in the library – the previous arls have assembled a decent collection of volumes on archery and hunting, but none of them seems to have had an interest in culinary matters. But finally she comes upon a recipe that looks just perfect. Cook grumbles when she uses up all the almonds, but Bethany manages to mollify her by applying a few of Malcolm Hawke's special preservation spells to the larder, substantially extending the shelf life of the supplies stocked for the winter.

Pounce is intrigued by her baking effort, watching the preparation of the dough with intense focus. He's looking so much better these days, clean and well fed, his eyes bright and clear and his tabby coat shiny and bright red. But he is still constantly on the lookout for food, still not quite certain that there will be enough. When he finally gives up and slinks away, it is with an air of regal indignation that makes Bethany smile.

She isn't much of a cook, but following a recipe is not that different from preparing a potion, and the end result looks acceptable. Finally, she takes her tray up to Zevran's room, knocking nervously on the big oaken door.

"I told you I didn't want to be- Oh. It's you." He looks different without his usual leathers, dressed only in a thin white shirt and tight pants, no visible weapon on his person. Different and softer, somehow, more accessible, which gives her hope. "What can I do for you?"

"May I come in?" She gives him her best puppy look, the one that always used to work on Anders.

But he remains cool and distant. "I do not think that is a good idea. You see… what is that?" The look on his face when she shoves the tray towards him is almost comical. "Are those… _biscotti_?" His nostrils flare as he inhales the rich, buttery aroma of the biscuits.

"With almonds," she confirms. "Original Antivan recipe, or so the book claimed. May I please-"

"Of course. Where are my manners? Please do come in." He steps aside, motioning for her to enter. The room is light and pleasant, sparsely furnished and immaculately clean. There are hardly any hints as to its occupant's identity, except for the scent of leather and beeswax on the air and the armour stand in the corner. All his other belongings are hidden away in a locked strongbox next to the bed, no doubt as much for the safety of any intruder as for privacy's sake.

Zevran takes his time choosing a biscuit from the tray. When he takes a bite, his eyes close in pleasure and he moans softly. " _Molto delizioso_. Delicious." And Bethany is struck by a sudden urge to hear him make that sound again, in a different context. _Patience,_ she tells herself.

She attemtps another smile at him. "Will you accept those as my peace offering and forgive me?"

"But, you have already been forgiven. Days ago." He looks positively scandalized at the suggestion that he would hold a grudge for so long. "I am perfectly aware that you did not mean any harm."

"I am still sorry." Bethany reaches out to place a hand on his bare wrist. He flinches a little, but he doesn't push her away, and she decides to take that as encouragement. And Maker, his skin is so wonderfully soft and warm. "Will you… Will you come back to see me then, as you promised?" _Will you kiss me again?_ She doesn't say the words aloud, but she knows he hears them anyway, because for a heartbeat, his gaze flutters down to her lips, and there's such a longing in his eyes that it makes her swoon.

But then he takes a step back, breaking the contact. "I do not think that would be wise. Bethany…" And now he turns away, as if he can't bear to look at her, while he says the words. "This has been a mistake. I am afraid I have been leading you on, and for that, I apologize."

"But you haven't." She shakes her head emphatically. "You haven't done anything of the kind, Zevran. You have shown me nothing but respect, and you have behaved as honourably as I could have wished for." _More so, in fact._

"I am glad to hear it." He doesn't look glad, though, not at all. There's a world of sadness in his eyes as he continues, and it pains her to see it. "Still, I fear I have made you expect more than I can give you. You are an amazing woman, Bethany, a dream come true, but... I do not think it is in my power to love you the way you deserve to be loved."

"And why wouldn't it be?" Bethany's heart is racing, and she's never been more afraid to speak her mind, but she knows she can't let this happen, she can't let him slip away from her. "Why do you think you cannot love me?"

"Because of what I am." Maker, there's so much pain in his voice. "An assassin. A cold and ruthless killer. A man trained not to care."

"But that is no longer who you are." Again, she reaches out for him, and this time, she takes his hand firmly into his. "You are not with the Crows anymore. And you're never ever going back to that life, am I right?"

He nods shakily. "Not if I can help it."

"Good. Because you deserve to be free of them." Gently, she strokes the back of his hand, willing him to believe her. "You aren't heartless, and I don't think you've ever been. You, Zevran Arainai, have the biggest heart I have ever seen, for all you deny it. There is no reason why you shouldn't be capable of loving me back."

"Loving you back…" His hand presses hers hard, almost reflexively, and now he's looking at her again, and the expression in his eyes is so vulnerable and open that it sends shivers down her spine. "You mean to say…"

"Zevran! I've been in love with you for weeks. Surely you must know that." And now the words are out in the open, but he still looks dazed, as if he has trouble wrapping his mind around the concept. She grasps his hand harder, willing him to understand. "And if you don't, I'm going to say it over and over until you believe me. Only... your language is much better suited to expressing my feelings than mine. Remember the poems?"

When he nods, Bethany takes a deep breath. She has spent a few more hours in the library, looking up what she wants to tell him, diligently learning the phrases by heart, but she is nervous, convinced that her pronunciation is terrible and that she is going to mess this up. "Mi… mi hai cambiato la vita. Non posso vivere senza di te." _You changed my life_. _I can’t live without you._

His breath hitches at her words, and slowly, very slowly, he pulls her closer, so close that their bodies are touching. "Bethany…"

"Sei tutto per me." And that's the extent of her Antivan, but it's enough, more than enough.

"And you are everything to me, _amore mio_." Zevran's eyes are shining with happiness as he pulls her into a long kiss.

His mouth is soft and warm, and she can taste the almond _biscotti_ on his lips, sweet and rich. He makes the kiss last for what seems like an eternity, full of promise and love and tenderness. And just when she thinks it can't get any better, he pulls back a little, and yes, there's that soft moan again, the one she won't ever tire of hearing. _Something_ changes, a shift so subtle it would take a poet to describe it.

The next kiss is more daring, a soft nipping at her lips, then a deep, thorough exploration of her mouth, and by the Maker, that man knows how to kiss! The whole world narrows down to the sensation of his mouth on hers, his tongue teasing, searching, playing, patient yet insistent, gentle yet demanding. When he finally lets go of her lips, it is only to leave a hot trail of kisses down her throat, every single one of them an act of worship, a promise of more.

"Zevran?" Bethany's head is spinning, and she is glad for his firm arm around her waist, because the ground seems to have become unstable. "Will you make love to me now?"

"Your wish is my command." The words are glib, but there is such a depth of passion in his voice that it makes her shiver all over. "Come."

Fortunately, his bed is only a few short steps away, because now that they've finally come this far, Bethany doesn't want to wait a moment longer. She is on fire, burning for him, every inch of her skin yearning for his touch. Her hands are trembling as she reaches for the sashes of her robes, fumbling with the knots to untie them.

"Shhh." His fingers are much more skilled than hers at such tasks, and he loosens the knots with ease. "Allow me, _amore_."

Warm hands push the thick velvet off her shoulders, freeing her body from its heavy prison, and now there's only her linen shift left to cover her, the thin fabric clinging to her curves. Zevran pulls back a little, breathing heavily, his eyes blazing as he looks her over. "So beautiful."

And that's not fair, because she wants to see him, too, so she gets to work on his shirt. He laughs in delight at her eagerness, moving into her touch with an easy grace that reminds her of Pounce when he demands to be petted. "Go on, _cuore mio_. I am all yours."

She blushes at that, but then the shirt comes off, and there is so much more golden skin for her to touch, so many more tattoos to admire, and she loses herself in the heat of his body and the low soft rumble of his laugh. "Zevran, please, I need..." _More,_ she wants to say, always more of him, of the way he makes her shiver and gasp.

He understands her without words. Her shift comes off, and somehow, his pants disappear as well, and suddenly they are skin to skin on the bed, their legs entangled. His lips and hands are _everywhere,_ working their magic all over her body, stoking that fire burning under her skin. There's not a single part of her that doesn't crave his touch, not a single thought in her mind but for how _good_ this feels, how right, how perfect.

She does her best to caress him in turn, to find every spot that makes him moan, like the sensitive tips of his ears, or the soft patch of skin on the inside of his upper arms. Touching him is a delight in itself, because he is so much in tune with his body and hers, responding to every caress, every kiss with exquisite sensitivity. Bethany has never been with a lover who is so aware, so present in the moment, as if the whole world outside this room has ceased to exist while he makes love to her.

He is gentle and thorough, but at the same time, there's a growing urgency to his caresses, a rising need that won't be denied. When he slides his thigh between hers to part them, she is more than ready for him, and when he nudges against her, hot and hard, she mewls with impatience. "Please..." Nothing has ever been as urgent as the need to feel him inside her, nothing at all. "Please, Zevran."

He doesn't refuse her, he's not that cruel, but when he pushes inside her, it's with tantalizing slowness, spreading her open inch by careful inch. He feels so wonderful inside her, as if he belongs there, and yet he is careful not to go too fast, until he is fully settled. He pauses, then, pulling back a little so he can meet her eyes. "Good?"

"A lot better than good." She smiles up at him, allowing herself to drown in the amber depths of his eyes. "Zevran, I..." _I love you,_ she wants to say, because her heart is so full of love for him, but it's too early. Not yet. They will get there, she knows they will, but for now, this is all she needs.

"I am here." He is holding her gaze, no flinching, no looking away this time. "I am yours."

Bethany wants to reply in kind, but the words are stolen from her lips by the soft, sensuous roll of his hips as he starts to move. He's going slow at first, so slow that she can feel _all_ of him, every point of contact between their bodies, every sensation magnified by the current of desire flowing between them. It is amazing and intense, and she never wants it to stop, but at the same time, she wants more, needs more. Arching up below him, she digs her nails into his back, trying to push him deeper inside her, opening up for him as wide as she can. Because yes, he is hers, and she is his, and there is no holding back anymore. They are one.

* * *

It has never been like this.

Zevran has taken more lovers than he cares to remember, and he knows everything there is to know about chasing lust and giving pleasure. But this… Bethany giving herself up to him completely, her eyes glazed over with desire and at the same time so full of genuine, deep feeling – it is like nothing he has ever known. No one, but no one, has ever looked at him like she does, like he is the centre of her universe, the source of all her happiness. And yes, it is scary, and some part of him wants to run, but he is not stupid enough to give in to that impulse. Not this time.

Their bodies are joined, as closely as they can be, and it feels amazing, but that is nothing compared to the feeling tugging at his heartstrings, the wonderful, horrible realization that they belong together, that she wants him, Zevran Arainai, wants all of him, flaws and pain and everything. _Sei tutto per me_ – the words still echo in his ears, and Creators, the fact that they were spoken in his language, that she has taken the time to look them up and memorize them… It's like an arrow straight to his heart, and he is powerless, helpless against the onslaught of feelings.

She is moving with him, as eager to make love as he is, and that, too, is a gift he knows to appreciate. Such a sensual woman she is, his Bethany, so beautiful and so hungry for his caresses, and he will never tire of making her moan, making her come undone. Her skin is soft and smooth like sheer silk, and her breasts are perfection, full and round and gorgeous, her dark nipples hard and begging for his attention. When he latches onto one of them with his mouth, she whines with delight, and he can't help himself – he _sucks_ , deep and greedy, revelling in her answering cry of pleasure.

Bethany tastes and smells so good, honey and vanilla blending with her own, unique taste, and the feeling of her nipple against his tongue, taut and pebbled, is so divine that he almost loses it. She is so wonderfully responsive, and he wants nothing more than to surrender to his need, to the powerful drive to take her, to have her, to make her all his. It is torture to force himself to keep it slow, but he has to if he wants to keep control, if he wants to make it good for her. "Bethany... _amore..._ " His voice is so thick with desire that he barely recognizes it himself.

Somehow, he manages to keep it up a little longer, a few more slow, measured thrusts, but when she starts tightening around him, urging him on in small, breathless whispers, it is too much. His control, his carefully honed iron control, shatters into a million pieces and his vision goes white. Dimly, he is aware that he is pounding into her, hard and fast, his hips jerking against her, their careful rhythm broken, but he simply cannot stop. It is too good, too perfect, with her hot body all around him, snug and tight, her skin hot and slick against his.

The roar in his ears becomes deafening, drowning out everything else, because now he is falling, tumbling headfirst from the skies, and it is both amazing and frightening. Amazing because of the rush of pleasure starting to uncoil at the base of his spine, so sweet, so mind-blowing, that it makes him shiver in anticipation. And frightening, because surely he will be lost in this raging current, surely he will drown, and...

"Zevran." Just the one word in Bethany's voice, his name, nothing else, but it is enough to anchor him, to give him peace.

He finds her gaze again, meeting those beautiful dark eyes, and he holds on to it, clings to it as his climax tears through him, obliterating everything else. And he can _see_ the exact moment she joins him, the moment when her eyes cloud over with lust, her mouth opening on a silent scream. It is incredibly beautiful, and he commits the sight to memory, even as he hopes to recreate it every day of his life.

They don't speak afterwards, for the longest time, just lie next to each other and stare into each other's eyes, unable to put their feelings into words. When he finally opens his mouth to speak, his throat feels raw and scratchy and his voice is hoarse. "Bethany, my love..." He swallows hard. "Nei tuoi occhi c’è il cielo."

_Heaven is in your eyes._

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the CMDA Secret Santa fic exchange.  
> All the hugs and thanks to my wonderful beta suilven.


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